or what? Was his voice always this velvety rasp that crept its way under her skin—when he wasn’t barking at her, that was? And why was he being so thoughtful and considerate all of the sudden when she knew darn well he’d already written her off as a Tinseltown flake with a worthless job flashing pretty smiles at the cameras for big money?
Why did his presence tie her belly up in crazy little knots?
He was dirty like a field hand, for God’s sake! Dirty, grouchy and arrogant. What was so thrilling about that? True, he wore a Negro League baseball cap—the black background with red lettering of the Indianapolis Clowns—so he couldn’t be all bad, but he was definitely mostly bad. So why was he making her unravel like a ninth-grader crushing on the prom king? Why did the musky scent of him and the indecipherable light in his golden eyes turn her into a quivering pool of mush?
At least he’d stopped touching her. Thank goodness for small favors.
“Ah, no,” she said, clearing her throat. “Thanks.”
They rode in silence for a way, which was good. Using the least amount of words possible seemed to be his thing, so as long as she kept quiet and didn’t babble or engage him in any way, this whole disconcerting interlude between them could pass without further incident.
Nice. She had a workable plan.
“What exactly do you do at the winery?” she asked.
He hesitated, keeping his eyes on the road. “I grow the grapes. And I make the wine.”
A lightbulb went off over her head. She’d known this guy was way too intelligent to dig irrigation ditches or some such all day, despite his appearance.
“Oh. So you’re a viticulturist and enologist?”
His jaw hit his lap with surprise and he glanced over, all wide-eyed astonishment. “Yeah.”
Annoyance warred with dark triumph inside her gut. So he was surprised she knew a couple multisyllable words, was he? Did he think she was too dumb and clueless to do a little reading about a vineyard before she showed up at one? Bozo.
“Keep your eyes on the road, please,” she snapped. “I don’t know why you’re so determined to kill me with this truck.”
He jerked his gaze back to the road. “Sorry. Not many people know the words.”
“Well, I’m not like many people, am I?” She didn’t bother keeping the ice out of her voice; she wasn’t ready to accept his apology just yet.
“No.” A muscle ticked in the back of his jaw. “You sure as hell aren’t.”
“So you’re a scientist. Did you go to UC Davis? I know they’ve got a program there—”
“No.” The edge of his lip curled, as though he was fighting a smile. “I went to Washington State.”
“So how long have you been working here?”
He paused. “Long time.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it true that you can tell when the grapes are ripe by squeezing them and seeing if the juice makes a little star-shaped pattern?”
His brows crept toward his hairline. They drove a good several hundred feet before he answered, “Yep.”
Irritated all over again, she glared at the side of his face. “Feel free to jump in anytime and tell me some fun facts about making wine. Maybe we could carry on a conversation.”
“I doubt there’s anything I could say that you don’t already know.”
“What a great ambassador for the Chambers Winery you are,” she muttered. “I can hardly wait to go back home and give this place a one-star rating on all the review sites.”
They rolled up to a stop sign just then and he took the opportunity to stare into her eyes with what seemed like bewilderment and sincerity. “Livia,” he said tiredly, “at this point, I’m just trying to keep my head from exploding off my shoulders.”
Well, what the hell was that supposed to mean? Was that an insult? A compliment?
Stymied, she snapped her mouth shut, crossed her arms over her chest and kept her head turned toward the window. See? She knew she should’ve kept her mouth shut. Why’d she let her weird fascination with this guy overwhelm her good sense? They were oil and water, in case she still hadn’t gotten it through her thick head, and any conversation between them was impossible, notwithstanding all her best intentions.
Luckily, they’d arrived. Driving past the tasteful stone sign that read Chambers Winery, he pulled up to the crowded bike rental stand and put the car in Park.
“Thanks for the ride,” she snapped. Desperate to get out of his truck and be done with him, forever, she snatched her pack off the floor and reached for the door handle. “I can get the bike myself—”
“Here.” Something soft tapped her on the arm and she looked over her shoulder to discover that he’d produced a clean powder-blue Chambers Winery T-shirt from somewhere. “Put this on.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You’re cold,” he insisted.
Cold? Did he not see her sweat-slicked face? “Are you crazy?” she began, but then he gave her chest a pointed once-over and she glanced down with dawning understanding.
Oh, God. Everything—everything!—was on display down there; she might as well have photographed her girls and posted them on the nearest billboard. Cheeks burning with humiliation, she snatched the shirt and jerked it on, taking two attempts to get her right arm into its sleeve.
“You could have mentioned that earlier,” she snarled when her head emerged.
He shrugged. “I couldn’t resist the view.”
Would it be wrong to scratch his eyes out? The local police would understand given the circumstances, right? And why did she still feel this strong connection to him and, worse, the driving need to understand what went on behind the honey-colored crystal of his eyes?
“I can’t get a read on you.” It wasn’t the wisest confession she’d ever made but she couldn’t hold it back. “I can’t figure out if you’re the world’s biggest jerk or a great guy.”
Renewed heat swallowed up his amusement and that smirk disappeared, giving way to naked intensity that had her belly fluttering and her toes curling.
“Does it matter to you which one I am, Sweet Livie?”
“No,” she lied. “It doesn’t matter to me at all.”
Chapter Three
Livia tiptoed through the small foyer and inched the door of her guesthouse open just enough to let in a sliver of early morning sunshine. Peering out, she saw, to her delight, that the heavy mist seemed to have burned off since she woke from a near-dead sleep forty-five minutes ago (something about this wonderful mountain air really did it for her), and it looked like it’d be a great day for—
Bark!
Aaaannnd he was still there.
Resigned to her fate, she sighed, gave up her covert routine and stepped out onto the porch, where Marmaduke had taken up residence on one of her Adirondack chairs. Had he slept there last night, keeping a sweet but misguided watch over her little temporary home? She was beginning to think he had. He’d definitely been guarding his post when room service arrived with her breakfast oatmeal, granola and fruit earlier. Clearly she shouldn’t have slipped him that tiny piece of banana; she could see that now. It’d only encouraged him, and the Dog Wrangler wouldn’t approve of a dog being fed people food. Now she was apparently stuck with the monster.
Served her right for being softhearted.