The hotel phone gave a jangly ring, and she picked up the receiver. “Kelly Wright,” she said, distracted.
The call was from the main desk. Her replacement rental car had just been delivered, and was waiting for her in valet parking. Would she like the keys brought up?
Kelly thanked the caller and replied in the affirmative, before turning back to her computer, opening the mailbox and drafting a brief email to Dina, letting her know the laptop was working fine, for the moment at least. She ended the note quickly, opened a new window and flashed a message to her assistant, Laura, who responded almost immediately, brimming with OMGs and emoticons and thank-God-you’re-all-rights.
Kelly was smiling to herself when someone knocked on her door and announced, “Valet service.”
A city girl, as well as a frequent traveler, Kelly crossed the room, looked through the peephole and saw a young man in a staff uniform, grinning and holding up a set of keys.
She was back in action.
MACE WAS NOT a man given to obsessive thoughts; he was too busy for that, as a general rule. But at day’s end, with the landscape he loved surrounding him, cloaked in the purplish-pink haze of dusk, he couldn’t get Kelly Wright out of his mind.
He did the things he always did—checking the equipment in the winery, locking up his small, cluttered office an hour or two after he should have, walking between the long rows of vines, acres of them, looking for any sign of disease or blight. All the while, he was soaking in the singular energy of good dirt and growing things.
He’d probably missed supper—again—but he was used to that, and so was Harry, the Carson family’s longtime cook and housekeeper. She usually left a plate in the fridge or warming in a slow oven, the food foil-covered, with his name scrawled atop it in black marker, invariably followed by a series of exclamation points.
Mace smiled, aware that the emphatic punctuation was meant for his two older brothers. Slater and Drake were active men with normal appetites, and as nourishing as Harry’s meals were, neither of them was above foraging for leftovers in the search for a late-night snack. The labeling was her way of warning them off, should they be tempted to help themselves to Mace’s supper, and it was effective—most of the time.
Both Slater and Drake were forceful types; like Mace, they’d been raised to go after what they wanted. But they usually knew better than to purloin grub Harry had posted as off-limits.
He was about to leave the vineyard and head for the house when his phone signaled an incoming text. He took it from his shirt pocket and squinted at the message, expecting to hear from a buyer, or one of his salespeople, or maybe his mother, reminding him, as she sometimes did, that even wine moguls had to eat and sleep.
Mace stopped, everything inside him quickening as he read the text. It was from Kelly, and it was brisk. Intriguing, too, on a personal level.
If you’re free, let’s have lunch tomorrow, here at the resort. I’m eager to give you a preliminary overview of what our company has to offer in terms of worldwide distribution. If you’re agreeable, we can meet in the lobby at noon. I’ve made reservations at Stefano’s.
Mace had been to more lunch and dinner meetings than he could count since the first viable crop of grapes had been ready to ferment, and not a single one of those meetings had ruffled him in the least. This one, however, turned his breath shallow and practically doubled his heart rate.
Why was that?
He scrolled back to the top of the text and read it again, wondering at his mixed reaction. The message was crisply phrased and to the point, all business, and he respected that; it was the way he did things, too. Time was money, and all that.
Still, something about this message, the cool professionalism, maybe, scraped at a tender place inside him and made him feel like a stranger.
Which was reasonable because, like it or not, he was a stranger to Kelly, as she was to him.
He’d happened to be in the right place at the right time to lend a hand when it was needed, ten years ago and again last night, but Kelly had thanked him on both occasions, and that was that, as far as he was concerned.
The first time around, it had been enough to know the assailant was in custody and, with his extensive rap sheet, on his way to the state prison for a long stretch.
Mace had been dating someone else back then, and there’d never been a romantic attachment between him and Kelly. He’d held Kelly’s hand in the emergency room, been with her when the police took her statement, then come back to testify at the trial months later. They’d been acquaintances, not lovers or even friends, really.
He’d graduated within weeks of the incident and gone straight to his grandfather’s vineyard in the Napa Valley for some hands-on training in the art of fine winemaking. He’d put in months of eighteen-hour days under the old man’s tutelage, followed by the rigors of starting an operation of his own once he returned to Wyoming and the ranch.
The truth? He’d been too focused on his work to think about Kelly and that night on campus or the trial, except on rare occasions when some news report triggered the memory. Even his then-girlfriend, Sarah, as undemanding a woman as he’d ever known, had finally gotten tired of waiting for him to surface from the grind and pay her some attention. She’d sent him the modern version of a Dear John letter in the form of a text, something along the lines of, “Have a nice life.” He’d been hurt, although he’d known, even then, that the relationship between him and Sarah was going nowhere.
It made sense that Sarah’s message had rattled him, but this one?
Kelly had suggested a business lunch, period. Most likely, he’d imagined the standoffish tone, and that was troublesome, too. It was one thing to be concerned; the woman could easily have been seriously injured or killed if she hadn’t gotten out of that car when she did.
The problem was, he’d been more than concerned.
He’d hovered. Even now, he was hyperaware of Kelly. Reading nuances, for God’s sake, like some obsessive fool.
He had to step back, he decided. Get his bearings.
Stop thinking like a stalker.
That idea was ludicrous enough to bring on a grin as he walked toward the main house, looking forward to a hot shower, a warmed-up supper and a good night’s sleep. By morning, he’d be his old, levelheaded, roll-with-the-punches self.
He paused on the side porch, in a shaft of light from the hallway leading to the kitchen, took out his phone and thumbed a response to Kelly’s text. It was short and sweet.
See you tomorrow at high noon.
* * *
TRUE TO HER WORD, Laura had overnighted a packed suitcase to Kelly, and it must have arrived while she was having breakfast in the resort’s small, busy bistro, because when she returned to her room, there it was on the luggage stand. When she opened it, she blessed her youthful assistant for making all the right choices.
Inside were:
Two tailored pantsuits and two silk camisoles.
A simple black cocktail dress and a strand of pearls, just in case there was a dinner meeting or an unexpected social event.
Shoes and bags for each outfit.
Laura had thought of everything; she had a talent for that. She’d also included plenty of lacy bras and panties, three pairs of jeans, several long-sleeve T-shirts, socks and sneakers. There was a soft cotton nightgown, as well. Plus a bathing suit and cover-up.
Finally, Laura had tucked in a zippered bag containing basic cosmetics and toiletries. Ordinarily, Kelly wore a minimum of makeup, only lip gloss, mascara, a tinted moisturizer and a little blusher.
Everything