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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 feet a break. A rail fence separated the road from the open pastureland that fed into the rows of vines, and she stepped over a drainage ditch and climbed between the top and bottom rails so she could sink her feet into the cool grass. It felt so good that she rested her butt on the bottom rail and closed her eyes, relishing the sensation.
But as much as she wanted to concentrate on only the cool of the grass on her sore, hot feet, she couldn’t stop her mind from picking at the tangled mess she’d made today. She’d gone a little overboard on the protecting-herself thing. She’d been unprofessional. She’d been stupid. She’d been the queen bitch from hell, basically. And she wasn’t particularly proud of herself.
She had a lot of excuses lined up: he pushed all her buttons, reminding her of age-old resentments and ancient insecurities. He was the epitome of so many of the values she’d fought against all her life. And, to her everlasting embarrassment, she had a crush on him that she knew would never be reciprocated.
But none of it was good enough when put in the balance against her poor behavior. Beneath all the sass and the attitude and the Bette Davis drawl, she was a fair woman. She owed him an apology. Big time.
Her eyes were still closed when she heard the sound of a car approaching and slowing to a halt. Even if she hadn’t recognized the distinct burble of the Corvette’s engine, she would have known it was Mac by the way all the small hairs on her arms stood on end.
Secretly, she’d been hoping he’d relent and return for her. It had taken him nearly an hour, but he had. It didn’t escape her attention that she’d kept him waiting for an hour back in the office, too. He hadn’t looked as though he cared, but he had. He’d just bided his time and waited for an opportunity to serve her up some of her own medicine.
Clever.
Swiveling, she ducked her head beneath the top rail and peered at him.
“Ready to go home now?” he asked.
He’d pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and there was a distinct challenge in his gaze. Her eyes dropped to the Popsicle he was holding in one hand. While she’d been vandalizing her shoes, he’d been snacking.
A wry smile found its way to her mouth. He knew how to rub a woman’s face in her wrongdoings, that was for sure.
“That would be very nice, thank you,” she said, determined to show him she’d learned her lesson.
Crouching and easing through the rails, she stepped back over the drainage ditch. He pushed the passenger door open for her, but she hesitated before crossing the threshold.
“Before I get in—I owe you an apology,” she said uncomfortably. She was eternally grateful for her sunglasses—at least they afforded her a tiny skerrick of protection from his bright, hawkish gaze.
“I’m listening,” he said.
She took a deep breath. “I have been beyond rude all day. I’m sorry. It was entirely my problem—nothing to do with you—and I took my bad mood out on you,” she said, fudging the last part but figuring he really didn’t need to know that the reason she’d been such a harpy all day was because she hated herself for finding him almost irresistibly attractive.
There was a long pause before he reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out a second Popsicle, still in its wrapper.
Offering it to her, he jerked his head. “Get in,” he said.
He’d bought her a treat. Bewildered, she slid into the car, unconsciously wincing as one of her blisters brushed the carpet. He frowned.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
“Blisters,” she explained, too busy tearing the wrapper off her Popsicle to elaborate.
His glance dropped to her broken shoe, lying on the floor.
“And you broke your shoe?” he said.
“It’s repairable.” She shrugged, taking a big, deliciously cool bite of tangy raspberry ice.
He gave her an intent look before signaling and pulling back out onto the road.
She polished off her treat and he silently passed her a travel pack of tissues to wipe her sticky hands.
“Thank you.” She hesitated a moment, then reminded herself that she still had some ground to make up. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” she asked, forcing herself to be light.
He shrugged. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”
Grace jerked her head around to look at him. “You’re kidding.”
“That’s my price for pretending today never happened,” he said, eyes hidden behind his own sunglasses now.
“Why would you want to have dinner with me when I’ve been a total bitch all day?” she asked honestly.
He didn’t take his attention off the road. “We need to have a decent working relationship,” he said.
“Okay, I agree with that. But dinner really isn’t necessary, is it?” she asked. The thought of spending more time with him—of sitting opposite him for a meal, being unable to avoid looking into that stunning, unforgettable face—was too, too overwhelming.
“I think it is.”
She could hear the determination in his tone. He’d offered his deal—forgiveness for dinner. She closed her eyes. Why-oh- why hadn’t she picked someone completely outside her world to be her fantasy lover? Hell, why hadn’t she picked someone really safe, like Elvis or Jim Morrison?
She opened her eyes again. “Okay. Where do you want to meet?”
“I’ll pick you up,” he said.
This time, she didn’t even bother trying to argue.
GRACE WELLINGTON was a revelation. The thought crossed his mind somewhere between their appetizers and main courses that evening.
By the time he’d arrived at her low-rise art deco apartment block to collect her, he’d had two hours to regret his impulsive invitation. Why prolong the misery of a genuinely shitty day by extending it into dinner? But he’d always been unable to refuse a challenge—and Grace was definitely challenging.
The moment she’d opened her door to him, most of his doubts had turned to dust. Somehow, in the time between dropping her off at the production offices and navigating his way to her Venice Beach apartment, he’d forgotten how striking she was. The smell of her heavy, musky perfume smacked him in the nose even as his eyeballs boggled at all the delights they were being offered. Her breasts looked incredible in a fitted, high-necked-but-still-sexy pale-yellow dress featuring about a million little buttons down the bodice. Her hips got their fair share of attention, too, since her skirt hugged her curves like nobody’s business. Her toes peeped out from between the straps of a pair of elegant red-suede stilettos and he’d felt an instant surge of desire as she brushed past him.
The feeling had only intensified when she’d slid into his car and run an unconsciously sensual hand along the upholstery. It wasn’t until they were halfway to the intimate little restaurant he’d chosen in Malibu that he’d realized she was half lit. Not actually drunk, but definitely…relaxed. At first he’d been annoyed, but then she’d started to let her guard down. And now he was officially intrigued.
The cold-eyed, hard-nosed sourpuss of earlier in the day had been replaced by a lighthearted woman with a quick wit and a ready laugh. It was as though the earlier Grace had been sketched in black and white and at last he was being treated to the Technicolor version.
“I love mushrooms,” she purred now as her main course was delivered. “They’ve got everything—aroma, texture, taste. Don’t you think?”
He wondered if she was aware that she was running her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. And if she knew what it was doing to him.
“I’m a big fan of the pea, myself,” he countered.
“The pea?” She smiled, ready to be amused. He liked that about her.
“Why not? It’s small, it’s green, it rolls. Design, color, movement—the pea has a lot to offer.”
She shook her head and looked vaguely annoyed. “There you go again, surprising me.”
“Let me guess, you had me pegged as a potato kind of guy?” he asked.
She took a slug of her wine and shook her head for the second time. One of her elbows found its way onto the table and she leaned forward to accentuate her point.
“You’re an actor. You’re supposed to be one-dimensional. We’re supposed to be talking about how great you are,” she said.
There was just the slightest slur in her words, enough to make him shake his head subtly when the waiter approached, wine list in hand, hoping to secure an order for a second bottle.
“But, instead, we’re talking about vegetables. And music. And architecture. And our favorite movies,” she said.
She sounded put out.
“This bothers you?” he asked, slicing into his panfried snapper.
“Yeah, it bothers me. The way I figure it is this—some people in life get the looks, others get the smarts. You can’t have both.”
“Why not?”
She looked genuinely outraged. “It’s not fair. Good looks and smarts—there’s no defense against that,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows and reached for the lemon wedge on the edge of his plate.
“Defense? Is there some kind of war going on that I don’t know about?” he asked, squeezing lemon juice over his fish.
“Oh!” she said suddenly, jerking back.
He glanced up and realized that his lemon wedge had misfired and squirted her in the eye.
“I’m sorry—are you all right?” he asked, half standing and leaning forward.
She pulled her glasses off and blinked a few times. Then she smiled.
“Nice shot,” she said, tongue in cheek.
Smooth, really smooth, he chastised himself. The only time she’d unwound with him all day, and he tried to blind her. Feeling guilty, he plucked the heavy black frames from her fingers.
Her eyes widened. “It’s okay, I can clean them myself,” she said when he began drying them on his pristine napkin.
“At least allow me to exorcise my guilt,” he said, caught in the unobscured magic of her green gaze.
He’d noticed her eyes before—their exotic tilt, their color—but her glasses had always provided a chunky barrier to her thoughts. Now he felt as though he could see straight through to her soul.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, tugging at the neckline of her dress uncomfortably.
“You have amazing eyes,” he said, staring into them intently. “What color is that? Like sea foam. But greener.”
“Moldy green,” she said dismissively. “That’s what my sisters used to call it.”
“Jealousy is a curse,” he said.
“Oh no, they’re not jealous of me,” Grace quickly corrected him, reaching for her wineglass again. “They’re stunning, all of them.”
He shrugged, unconvinced. In his experience, brothers and sisters only took shots at the qualities they most envied in their siblings.
“They are,” Grace defended. Her long earrings brushed the creamy skin of her neck. “They even get paid to be beautiful— Felicity’s a weather girl, Serena is an actress and Hope’s a model. So there’s nothing for them to be jealous about where I’m concerned.”
For the first time, he sensed vulnerability beneath her tough-broad demeanor. First she was sexy and amusing, now she was vulnerable. He felt as though he was being treated to the dance of the seven veils, except it was Grace’s disguises that were dropping away instead of veils.
“Felicity, Serena, Hope and Grace. Let me guess—your Mom’s Catholic?” he asked. He’d long since finished cleaning her glasses, but her eyes were too beautiful to hide. He set the frames on the table. If she wanted them, she could ask for them—in the meantime he was going to enjoy the view.
“As Catholic as it gets,” Grace said, rolling her eyes. “I still blame Dad for not stopping her with the names.”
“Are you close to your sisters?” he asked, knowing he was pushing it. Grace had already proven she was a very private person.
She shrugged, looked away. “Sure.”
He saw a flash of unhappiness in her eyes and wondered.
“What about you? Do you have a big family?” she asked.
“Two younger brothers,” Mac said. “Both of them happy-as- pigs-in-mud married with kids.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Now you sound jealous.”
“Absolutely. They’re the smart ones—knew what they wanted, went out and got it, and now they’re in clover. Why wouldn’t I be jealous?”
For a long time, he’d viewed his brothers as having mundane lives full of routine and obligation. Only lately had he begun to realize that they were content, even fulfilled, in a way that he’d never been.
She made a disbelieving raspberry noise. Quite a loud one, thanks to whatever she’d had to drink before he picked her up and the lion’s share of the bottle of wine they’d been enjoying. The couple at the next table looked across with a frown. Mac hid a smile behind his napkin.
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