Seduced on the Red Carpet
Ann Christopher

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Books by Ann Christopher

Kimani Romance

Just About Sex

Sweeter Than Revenge

Tender Secrets

Road to Seduction

Campaign for Seduction

Redemption’s Kiss

Seduced on the Red Carpet

ANN CHRISTOPHER

is a full-time chauffeur for her two overscheduled children. She is also a wife, former lawyer, and decent cook. In between trips to various sporting practices and games, Target and the grocery store, she likes to write the occasional romance novel, always featuring a devastatingly handsome alpha male. She lives in Cincinnati and spends her time with her family, which includes two spoiled rescue cats, Sadie and Savannah, and a rescue hound, Sheldon.

If you’d like to recommend a great book, share a recipe for homemade cake of any kind, or suggest a tip for getting your children to do what you say the first time you say it, Ann would love to hear from you through her Web site, www.AnnChristopher.com.

To Richard

Dear Reader,

Vintner Hunter Chambers of the Chambers Winery is a simple man. A widower, he grows his grapes, makes his wine and raises his daughter. Period. That’s who he is and what he does, and he doesn’t want—or expect—anything else.

Until supermodel Livia Blake steps off the red carpet and into his life.

Suddenly, this enthralling and complicated woman is bewitching everyone in the Napa Valley, including Hunter’s daughter and his dog. Misguided Hunter first thinks that he can ignore his growing feelings for her, and then, when that fails, deludes himself into thinking she’s not the perfect woman for him.

Poor guy! Why does he have to make things so hard on himself?

I hope you enjoy watching Hunter fall so crazy in love he can’t even see straight…

Happy reading!

Ann

Chapter One

Livia Blake consulted her list again and surveyed the small, neatly packed and nondescript suitcase on her bed. No Louis Vuittons for this little trip to Napa Valley, no, siree; if you didn’t have to make a grand entrance to impress the loitering paparazzi, you didn’t need the expensive luggage. Nor did you need twenty bags crammed with false eyelashes, hairpieces, stilettos and tiny little black dresses that showed off your freshly waxed legs, so she hadn’t packed them.

This getaway was, for once, solely for pleasure. No business. At. All.

Ha!

For the next several days, she could—and would—eat and drink whatever the hell she wanted without worrying about fittings and disapproving remarks regarding the amount of junk in her trunk or her buoyant cleavage (all natural, thank you very much) refusing to be strapped into a postage-stamp-sized bathing suit top. There would be no swaggering runway walks for her, no fake smooches with egomaniacal designers and no over-the-top parties filled with airhead celebrities, socialites or steroid-puffed professional athletes trying to get into her panties.

That’s right. She wasn’t traveling to the Chambers Winery as Livia Blake, Supermodel. Until she had to report to Mexico for the photo shoot at the end of the month, she was plain old Livia Blake, civilian. Hallelujah.

But the question was: Had she packed everything?

Back to the list.

Hiking boots? Check. Bug spray? Check. Sweaters for those cool northern-California nights? Check. Also in her bag? A satisfyingly thick wine-tasting book, because she didn’t want to look like an idiot in wine country; her jogging shoes, because, although she wanted to eat and drink while on vacation, she didn’t want to gain thirty pounds while doing so; and her Jackie Robinson biography, which she was finally going to finish. She did love her some baseball.

Did she need thicker socks, though? And should she throw in one nice dress just in case—?

The muffled bleat of her cell phone came from somewhere in the room.

Uh-oh. Where was it?

Scrambling for the remote, she hit Pause on the DVR (she’d been watching The Dog Wrangler in the background and wanted to hear what he had to say about the neurotic poodle with stress incontinence) and listened again. Aha. Nightstand. Unearthing it from beneath a pile of rejected scarves, she saw that it was her friend Rachel Wellesley—probably calling about her flight time and when she’d meet Livia at the winery—and clicked it on.

“What’s up, girl?” Livia said.

There was no reciprocal greeting. Just a direct launch into the purpose of the call. “We might have a problem,” Rachel told her.

It always made Livia nervous when Rachel used that easy-breezy tone. “Problem as in you broke a fingernail or problem with the trip?”

During the long pause that followed, Livia saw all of her vacation hopes—the walks along the river to enjoy the fall foliage, the five-star accommodations, the wine tastings—go up in a spectacular plume of black smoke.

After a good two or three beats, Rachel cleared her throat, an additional stall tactic that didn’t fool Livia for a second. “Possibly with the trip.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. NOOOOOO. No one was going to rain on her parade and spoil the first official vacation she’d had in years. “Spit it out, Rach.”

“We can’t come,” said Rachel.

“What?”

“Not yet, but—”

“Why not?”

“—we want you to go ahead anyway. We’ll meet you there when filming’s finished.”

“Filming was supposed to be finished today.”

“Trust me, I know. But what can we do? And like I said, you go on ahead. Start without us.”

Wow. She had a comedian on her hands. “Will you kindly explain how I’m supposed to start without you when the whole purpose of this little trip is for you to see your fiancé’s family winery and decide if you want to get married there? Do you want me to try on wedding dresses for you while I’m at it?”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of crabby today, didn’t they?”

Livia had to snort at that. Staring at her suitcase, she thought about her options.

Option 1: she could sit here on her butt and wonder if she should have her walls repainted.

Option 2: she could take herself to Napa, sightsee, eat and drink to her heart’s content and wait for her friends to arrive in a few days. Then they could all eat and drink together.

Okay. Decision made.

“Fine,” Livia said ungraciously. “I’ll go by myself, but I’m not going to like it.”

“Please forgive me.”

“No,” Livia said, smiling.

“Look at it this way,” Rachel said with all the nauseating smugness of a happily engaged woman who could look forward to an orgasm or two that night when she went to bed with her sexy man, “maybe you’ll meet someone nice while you’re there.”

Livia balanced the phone on her shoulder and went back to searching for socks, which was hard to do since she’d rolled her eyes to the top of her head. Meet someone nice? Puh-lease. Nice men were rarer than white tigers on the moon.

“Right. And maybe Donatella Versace will feature a plain white cotton dress with flat shoes during fashion week.”

They both got a kick out of that unlikely image.

Napa Valley was, in a word, spectacular.

Having traveled all over the world, Livia didn’t use the word lightly, but it applied here. Whereas Las Vegas was spectacular in a tacky, glittery sort of way, and the Great Wall of China was spectacular in a humbling, majestic sort of way, Napa was spectacular in a quietly peaceful way. The gentle mountains, the waves of green trees now speckled with fall orange and the acres of lush vines—row after row, some red (red grapes, she’d read), some gold (white grapes), marching as far as her eye could see and seemingly past the horizon—all touched something deep in her spirit. This was a place that felt like it’d been transplanted from a previous century, and she wouldn’t be surprised if its lazy grace made the hands on her watch move a little more slowly than they did in New York or L.A.

This was, in short, a place she could love.

Once she got checked in to the guesthouse, that was.

She parked her rental behind the main bed-and-breakfast, which was wedged into a hillside and larger than she’d expected, and popped the trunk for her luggage. The charming redbrick building had several gables and chimneys and—oooh, she liked those!—pretty little flower boxes at every window, all of which were filled with cheerful red blooms. Several guesthouses, one of which she assumed was hers, were scattered nearby, and there was a—

Oh, wait. Was that a little girl?

It was, about twenty feet away, peering around a tree at her. She was brown-skinned and cute, about five or six, with a head full of dark twists, a white T-shirt with blue shorts and a red bandage on one knee. Could she be any cuter?

“Hello!” Livia smiled and waved. She was never quite sure about greeting strange children because she knew they’d all been taught not to talk to strangers. Hopefully she didn’t look too threatening. “Hello,” she called again. “My name is—”

The girl scampered off, disappearing around the corner of the big house. Livia watched her go, trying not to get her feelings hurt. Well. So much for new friends, eh?

Yeah, she thought as she bent to grab her suitcase. She loved it here.

Something moved right behind her and smacked her in the butt. She shrieked, jumped, whirled and found herself face-to-face with a pony-sized creature who’d made himself at home sniffing her private parts.

Another shriek welled in her throat, gathering steam, and her frantic brain was wondering how many of her four limbs he could rip off and devour before help arrived, when something weird happened. The thing backed up a couple of steps, cocked his head and studied her with benign interest. Probably not typical predator behavior, true, but that was no reason not to scream. She opened her mouth nice and wide and—

Hold up. That wasn’t a pony. It was a dog. The world’s biggest and possibly goofiest dog.

Snapping her jaws shut, she stared at the animal, who stared back. The darn thing’s head was well past her waist, which was quite impressive since she qualified for Amazon status at five feet eleven inches. He had big brown eyes, floppy ears, knobbly knees and gangly legs that made him look like the canine equivalent of a high school geek. His fur was the kind of brown with black slashes that the Dog Wrangler called—what was it?—a brindle pattern.

A Great Dane. That’s what he was. So. Was he going to eat her or not?

Apparently not. He had his big black nose working already, sniffing her, and she knew he’d like what he smelled because her signature fragrance was a light and lovely honeysuckle. Deciding to risk it, she reached out past his broad snout and scratched his ears. They were surprisingly silky, and the dog all but grinned at her in gratitude.

What a sweetie! He wasn’t so bad—

Without warning, the dog began barking at her, and each bark was the rough equivalent of a kibble-smelling cannon blast right in her face.

Bark! Bark-bark! BARK!

This pissed her off. One second ago they’d been new BFFs and now he wanted to take her head off for absolutely no reason? Uh-uh.

Calling on the thousands of hours of The Dog Wrangler that she’d watched over the years, she stood her ground, arched her fingers into a claw and gave the dog a quick jabbing zap right on his hindquarters. Just like that—zap!

This startled the dog, thank God, and he shut up midbark. Better than that, he yelped, backed away, dropped to his belly, rested his snout on his front paws and eyed her with newfound respect, almost as though he was waiting for her next command.

Nodding with grim satisfaction, she put her hands on her hips and stared down at him, daring him to try anything funny with her ever again.

That’s right, pooch. Don’t you mess with me.

“Hey!” Running feet came up behind her, crunching on the gravel. “What’d you do to my dog?”

What? Was this clown for real? She’s almost mauled by a schizophrenic Great Dane and then she gets blamed for making the dog behave? Again—uh-uh. Not gonna happen.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning and letting the sarcasm fly, “but maybe you didn’t notice that Marmaduke here is a menace to society and—oh.”

Whatever else she’d been about to say disappeared in a tiny little poof! when she locked gazes with the owner of that booming voice and those feet, who was clearly an asshole at heart hiding behind the body and face of a god.

The first thing she noticed was his height. He was taller—taller!—than she was, which was an event so rare in the non-NBA population that it might have been a full solar eclipse during a leap year. But he wasn’t a beanpole, which she could clearly see because he filled out his Chambers Winery powder-blue polo shirt and khakis in spectacular fashion, with squared shoulders, heavy biceps, a flat belly and narrow hips that told her, quite plainly, that he spent a little time lifting weights when he wasn’t honing his skills at being a world-class jerk.

He was brown-skinned and clean-shaven, with skulltrimmed black hair and eyes that blazed copper fire at her in the late morning sun. Unsmiling, he shifted his accusatory gaze between her and the dog at her feet. She had the nagging feeling that he was sorry the dog hadn’t finished her off and planned to do the job himself.

Okay, Livie. Put your eyes back in your head and get a grip.

“That dog—” she pointed to the offender lest there was any confusion about the dog in question “—needs to be on a leash.”

Mr. Personality, apparently deciding not to waste any unnecessary words on her, responded by raising one heavy eyebrow and holding up a black leash for her to see.

“Great.” Mollified but still irritated, she matched him glare for glare. “Are you planning to use it anytime soon?”

“If you don’t mind.”

His exaggerated politeness scraped across her nerves like tree bark. Still glowering, she stepped aside, gave him a be-my-guest flick of her hand and watched to see if he had any dog skills.

He didn’t. Inching closer with a wariness that was an open invitation to the dog to cull this weak member from the pack, he reached out with the leash, ready to clip it on the dog’s collar.

The dog’s head came up. One side of his black-lipped mouth pulled back just far enough to reveal a white incisor that looked sharp enough to mince walrus hide, and the beast emitted a rumbling growl. The man froze, arm outstretched. Livia froze, too, and the dog wasn’t even looking at her; she’d heard less fearsome growls coming from the lionesses on Animal Planet shows as they ripped hapless wildebeests to shreds.

The man, his cheeks coloring with either blind terror or embarrassment, shot a glance at Livia and took a minute to regroup. Then he cleared his throat, licked his lips and tried another tactic.

“Nice doggy,” he began. “I’ve got a cookie for you, you big monster, if you let me—”

Another growl, this one punctuated by the flattening of the hound’s ears and the revelation of several more teeth.

Oh, for God’s sake. Hadn’t this guy ever seen The Dog Wrangler? He was doing it all wrong and she didn’t have the inclination to watch the dog toy with him any longer.

“Here,” she snapped, snatching the leash from his hand.

“Wait—”

The dog tilted his head in her direction and tried that growling nonsense again, but she’d had enough. Snapping her fingers at him, she held her index finger down in his face.

“Hey,” she warned, keeping her voice low and calm.

The dog immediately dropped his head back on his paws and stared up at her with dewy eyes, as though he’d been waiting all his life for someone to appear, seize power and become the undisputed leader of his pack. Taking advantage of this peaceful moment, she clipped the leash onto his collar and handed it off to the man.

“That’s how it’s done.” Since the man didn’t know she’d never leashed a growling dog before in her life, she didn’t bother keeping the smugness out of her voice. “No need to thank me.”

The man clenched his jaw in the back, and she waited to hear the snap of his teeth breaking. “Like I said—what did you do to my dog? He doesn’t behave for anyone.”

Sooo…wait. He hadn’t been accusing her of abusing the animal?

“I just, ah, tried to be assertive with him. Let him know who’s in charge. You know.”

“I don’t know, actually.” His jaw loosened but he still seemed grudging with his words. “Thanks.”

“You should watch The Dog Wrangler.”

“Right,” he said sourly.

Wow. This guy and his dog both needed attitude adjustments. Big-time. Raising her brows—was there something bitter here in the water in Napa or what?—she turned back to her open trunk and suitcase.

“I’ll just take my bag and check in—”

“Let me.” Before she could object, and she planned to object because she hated it when overzealous bellhops or doormen snatched the bags out of your hand in their relentless quest for a big tip, even when you could clearly handle the bags yourself, he reached for her bag. “I’m happy to help.”

She studied his grim face. “I can see that. But really, I’ve got it.”

Ignoring her, he set the bag on the ground and walked around to peer inside the car’s window for who knew what. Seeing nothing but empty car, he looked back up the drive, as though he expected the imminent arrival of someone or something.

“Where’s the rest?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“Your luggage? Your entourage?”

Oh. Oh, okay. She got it. He, like other idiots worldwide, assumed that because she was a famous model, she was a diva-licious bitch. Or maybe he’d read some of her press coverage from back in the day, when she was young and stupid, and thought she was still as big an airhead as she’d ever been. Whatever. Clearly he needed a little schooling in both manners and customer service relations, and she was just the woman to do it.

“I take it you know who I am.”

Nothing at all changed in his expression, but the quick skim of that light brown gaze down her body and back up again all but ignited sparks across her skin.

“Every man who’s ever bought the Swimsuit Issue knows who you are.”

Livia froze, her pulse galloping away like a bee-stung horse, because she realized, with sudden excruciating clarity, that this man was trouble. Men checked her out all the time, which was no big deal. She was used to and impervious to it.

This was different.

This was the subtle peeling away of her cute little capri pants and fluttery top. There was banked heat in those eyes, as if he could look at her now and see her as she’d appeared on that Sports Illustrated cover when she was nineteen: sun-kissed and dewy, wearing a white triangle scrap of a bikini bottom with the strings undone and dangling on one side, and a loopy crocheted top that displayed every inch of her upper body—except for her nipples—in vivid detail. She’d had her windblown hair in her face, her hips cocked to one side, her lips and thighs parted, and sand dusted across one side of her body while the blue waters off Fiji lapped in the distance.

She’d been a young dingbat then, but as beautiful as she’d ever been—or probably ever would be—in her life. This man, whoever he was, remembered all that. He’d looked at that cover shot and now thought he knew her, but he knew nothing about the girl inside that shell.

Men never did, and she was used to their snap judgments.

What she wasn’t used to was the responsive curl of heat in her belly and the tug she felt toward this jerk, as though she’d been secretly magnetized and he was the North Pole.

Shake it off, girl.

“You might know who I am,” she said, painfully aware that her Georgia accent was thickening the way it always did when she was upset, so that might became maht and I became Ah, “but you don’t know me. I don’t travel with an entourage when my job doesn’t require it, and I only brought one suitcase.” She snatched it up from the ground before he could touch it again. “And I will carry it myself.”

Propelled by her wounded dignity, she stalked off toward the house, well aware of the surprised widening of his eyes. She’d put several feet between him and his mangy dog when he spoke again.

“Whatever you want.”

The subtle mockery made something snap in her brain, covering her vision with red. Halfway to a graceful exit, she discovered that she couldn’t let this jackass have the last word. It just wasn’t in her.

So she marched back up to stand in his face, suitcase in tow, and pointed her free index finger right at his perfectly straight nose. “You’re very rude,” she informed him. “You better believe I’m going to complain to the owners about you.”

To her further annoyance, this pronouncement only amused him, if the slow smile creeping across his face was any indication. “You do that,” he said. “They’ve had problems with me before. Make sure you tell them my name’s J.R.”

It would have been so nice to smack that wicked smirk right off his face and teach him a thing or two about the right way to treat a) women and b) paying guests, but that would have required moving and she found she couldn’t do that. There was something so sexy about this man, so unabashedly masculine and unaffected, that he made her breath hitch and her heartbeat stutter. And that was something that athletes, actors and rock stars alike hadn’t been able to do to her in more years than she cared to remember.

The amusement slipped off his face, leaving something altogether more disturbing and intense. Something that, as the old folks liked to say back home, scared the stuffing out of her.

Time to go, Livia.

Pivoting, she walked off toward the house.

The dog scrambled to his feet and ambled along after her.

Chapter Two

Man, what a day.

Hunter Chambers Jr. edged the pickup onto the road and beneath the cool tunnel created by the elms’ outstretched branches overhead, heading home after a quick trip to the neighbor’s winery. Rolling all the windows down, he enjoyed the rush of air on his overheated face and arms, although the refreshment came at a steep price: now he could smell himself. It wasn’t pretty. Atop the mild funk of clean sweat was the not-so-clean aroma of mud. What a winning combination that was. It was like he’d rolled several miles in the muck rather than merely walked the vines, picked a few bunches of cabernet—almost ready now; another couple days should do it—and carried the load on his head.

Braking as he went into a switchback, he slid the baseball cap back and swiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Mistake. Big mistake. A glance in the rearview mirror showed an unfortunate brown streak across his skin, adding to the general pigpen effect.

Nasty.

Just the way he liked it.

There was nothing like a hard day outside from dawn to dusk to make him feel like he’d done something, and the sweat and dirt were badges he wore with honor. You couldn’t grow grapes sitting nice and clean in the airconditioned inside—no, siree. Today had been especially productive, especially grueling, and he couldn’t be more pleased.

Especially since he’d worked off some of the agitation caused by that woman this morning.

Livia Blake—aka Trouble with a capital T.

Having put her out of his mind only through a lot of sweat equity, he wasn’t going to think about her now. No, he wasn’t. He would keep his mind on, ah…he’d keep his mind on…

Oh, yeah. Shower.

Yeah. An emergency shower was in his immediate future; possibly two. And then it’d be time to open a nice bottle of—

Holy shit.

He came out of the curve and had to cut the wheel hard and stomp the break to keep from plowing into a stupid-ass biker stopped on the shoulder. Hell, it wasn’t even the shoulder. Biker and bike were standing on the edge of the road, which was where you hung out when your fondest wish was to be launched three hundred feet into the air and then smashed into roadkill beneath the tires of an oncoming truck.

The biker dropped the bike and jumped aside, way too late, with a shouted “Hey!”

Dumbass. Like he was the reckless one. And Hunter would have been at fault if he’d hit the idiot and culled a weak and clearly stupid member from the herd. Was that fair? Giving the horn a furious honk, he glanced in the side mirror to see if the fool needed help and that was when he realized who it was.

Oh, shit.

It was her. Livia Blake. Trouble.

His gut lurched with a crazy excitement that had nothing to do with playing the Good Samaritan and everything to do with her. Keep going, he told himself, but the damn truck was already reversing as though it’d been caught by an invisible tail hook and reeled in. A smarter man would’ve sent someone back for her, but he and smart hadn’t been on speaking terms since he laid eyes on the woman that morning.

Stopping the truck properly on the shoulder, where all stopped vehicles belonged, he got out and took his time about walking back to her. Like the worst kind of Peeping Tom, he sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that his shades allowed him to study her with something like discretion. Which was shameful, especially for a man who had a mother and a small daughter. Women were not objects, and they should not be ogled. He was ashamed of himself. Truly. Deep down—deep, deep, deep down—in the farthest reaches of his soul, he felt like pond scum for checking her out so thoroughly. God would probably punish him later, and he’d deserve it.

He stared anyway.

That was the funny thing, not that it was really funny. He’d been aware of Livia Blake, of course, and he’d ogled her in the occasional Victoria’s Secret catalog that’d strayed across his path over the years. Certainly he’d seen that cover issue of Sports Illustrated and lusted, but that was in the generic way that all men universally lusted over all the women in that issue. Wow. Sexy models…I wonder what’s in the fridge.

But this…

Seeing her in person was a whole ‘nother kettle of fish, and he wasn’t quite used to it yet. Especially since she’d far exceeded his expectations and was beautiful in addition to intelligent, funny and intriguing.

Having scrambled back onto the road after darting out of the way, she now bent to pick up the bike. Which was the perfect way for him to appreciate the way her shorts highlighted both her round plum of an ass and her long, smooth and shapely brown legs. This was no tiny little five-footer who you’d be afraid of bending and breaking in bed if things got a little too enthusiastic. Oh, no. This was an Amazon who’d wrap those strong thighs around him—a man, he meant, not him—and give as good as she got before demanding more and then more again.

In a fateful move that made this one of the luckiest days of his life, she’d worn a stretchy little tank top–type thing in white. White! Which, out here in the late afternoon sunlight, was really something to see. Maybe that top looked fine in a dressing room, but she’d apparently been riding that bike hard—lucky bike—and she was nice and sweaty. Wet and sweaty. And, as every man in the world knew, white top plus sweaty woman equals a spectacular view of breasts.

No doubt she’d die if she knew it, but he could see…Jesus, he could see everything. Rounded breasts just saggy enough for him to see that they were hers and not some pair purchased via installment plan from a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Dark areolae, pointy nipples, the thrilling valley between. Then all that bounty gave way to a narrow waist and curved hips. Anyone who thought all supermodels were bony anorexics with no hips, butt or breasts had never laid eyes on this fantastic creature; no wonder she got millions just for showing up and smiling.

She was one tall drink of water, and he wanted to lower his head and drink.

The face was even better, if that was possible. All the makeup was gone now, not that she’d been wearing much to begin with, replaced with the damp glow of a healthy woman who’d gotten some good exercise. Her hair was up, damp around the edges with curling strands skimming her neck. Those hazel eyes glittered with fire, and her pouty lips were ripe for kissing.

She looked, in short, as though she’d spent a thoroughly satisfying afternoon in bed, and this view of her was definitely not the sort of thing he needed burned into his brain if he wanted to ignore and then forget her.

“You.” She kicked the stand down on the mountain bike, hung the helmet from the handlebars, planted her feet wide and jammed her hands on her hips. “I should have known. You’re a menace on the road, you know that?”

His blood, he was beginning to discover, flowed a little faster when she was around, and his skin felt a little warmer. It wasn’t his imagination and it wasn’t just his generalized appreciation of a beautiful woman. There was something about this woman that made his heart pound, something intriguing in those bright eyes that he longed to explore.

“I like to drive on the road,” he told her. “That’s what it’s for. Not loitering and admiring the scenery.”

“I wasn’t admiring the scenery, genius. I have a flat tire.”

Yeah, he’d seen that already. He stooped to examine the tire in question, mostly because it brought him much closer to her. Close enough to admire the smoothness of her skin, the attitude in her expression and to smell the clean, earthy musk of her.

Mistake. Big mistake.

And yet, when he stood again, he edged even closer, within kissing distance, if that sort of thing had been on his mind. Only the bike separated them, and God knew they were both tall enough to lean over the bike.

“You and your flat tire should be on the shoulder so you don’t get hit.”

“That’s where we were headed when you and your monster truck almost plowed us down.” Here she paused to give him a pointed and disdainful once-over. “What have you been doing, anyway?”

“Working in the fields,” he told her, unabashed. No doubt she’d never in her life raised her pretty little manicured hands for anything other than to signal for another glass of champagne. “That’s what we do here at the winery.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Shower much?”

Oh, she was funny. Stripping off his shades so she could see what he was doing, he gave her the kind of look-see she’d just given him, only his was quite a bit more lingering and appreciative. Her cheeks colored accordingly, but she didn’t drop that haughty chin by so much as an inch.

“Yeah,” he said. “You?”

Giving him a killing glare, she reached for her little pack on the ground and unzipped it. “Thanks for making sure I wasn’t killed when I dove out of the way of your speeding death machine. Kindly leave me in peace while I patch this defective Chambers Winery bike tire.”

What? Patch? Her?

To his astonishment, she withdrew a repair kit and actually looked like she knew what to do with it, which really screwed with his preconceived notions of her as a partying airhead with nothing inside her skull but marshmallow fluff. But, of course, it’d only taken one look into this woman’s keen hazel eyes for him to know that there was way more to her than what he could see on the outside.

He’d have to stop misjudging her and give her a chance.

Maybe.

If only he didn’t have such fierce reactions to everything about her.

“There’s nothing defective at the Chambers Winery, including the bikes. You must have ridden over a nail or something,” he informed her gruffly. “And I’ll do that for you.”

“No, thanks.”

“It’s the least I can—”

“No, thanks. I can do it.”

Yeah, he could see that. The sight of her, tired, dusty, sweaty and proud as she stooped beside the tire, was really doing a number on him. It was a terrible time to discover that he was a caveman at heart, but she shouldn’t have to fix that tire, and he was incapable of standing by with his thumb up his ass watching while she did it.

He could do it for her. He wanted to do it for her. An irritating voice inside his head was egging him on, pushing him to prove to her that, even though he wasn’t a Hollywood millionaire with flashy cars and a plane, he was strong and capable, and if she needed help while she was here on his land, then he was the one she could rely on.

Crazy, huh?

Insanity. But he still squatted on the other side of that tire, stared at her startled face through the spokes and put his hand on top of hers where it rested on the rubber treads. Something sparked a shiver across his skin. He told himself it was the cooling sweat on his body but that was as blatant a lie as he’d ever told, even to himself. The contact between their flesh tied him up in knots. That, and the wary turbulence in the depths of those astonishing hazel eyes.

“I’ll either do this for you or take you back to the bike rental. Your choice, Livia.” Her tightening jaw reminded him of his manners. “Please.”

“I’m not a spoiled diva.”

The stubborn insistence in her voice said it all. She was tired of being stereotyped and dismissed on the basis of her looks, tired of being treated like a china doll that could break and ruin the franchise. She was a strong, capable woman, and she wanted him to see that about her, to acknowledge it.

That pride tugged at his heart. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

“I know you’re not,” he said softly. “And if the truck gets a flat, you can change that for me, okay?”

That got her. A sudden laugh lit up her face and it was every bit as breathtaking as a vivid red sunset on the ocean’s horizon or sunlight hitting a rainbow. He started to laugh with her, but halfway through the maneuver his throat seized up and he could only stare, wishing she’d release him from whatever spell she’d spun around him.

“You’re just being nice because you know I’m going to try and get you fired.”

He floundered, trying to get his voice back online. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t told her that he was one of the Chambers that owned the winery, or why he’d given her his old nickname, J.R. for junior, rather than his real name, other than the idea of her trying to get his parents to fire him was hilarious.

This woman…she did things to him.

“Can we go now?”

“Yeah.” Her smile faded, probably because she’d seen—she had to see—how she intrigued him, how he wanted her. There were lots of things he was good at, but controlling his reactions to her didn’t seem to be one of them. Their touching hands became a fulcrum, the ground zero of a growing wave of heat that would ignite a fire capable of torching all these surrounding elms if they weren’t careful. “Can I have my hand back now?”

“Yeah,” he said, meaning it, and his brain sent the command to his hand: let go.

It took three or four beats after that for his hand to obey.

He stood, flustered, and she stood, clearing her throat. They didn’t look at each other. This unspoken signal made them look in other directions while he loaded the bike in the truck’s bed and she gathered up the helmet and her pack. They got in and he started the engine. No eye contact. They buckled up, staring out of their respective windows.

It didn’t matter. The damage had already been done and the air between them vibrated and sizzled accordingly, reminding him of the crackling energy created by the light sabers in the Star Wars movies. Which wasn’t a good sign.

He put the truck in gear and gripped the wheel with palms that were now wet like the rest of him but for an entirely different reason.

Drive, man. Keep your trap shut and drive. The sooner she’s out of your truck, the better.

Don’t say anything stupid.

“Livia?”

There was all kinds of yearning in his hoarse voice but it didn’t seem to reach her. She kept her head resolutely turned toward her window and didn’t answer.

“Are we developing a problem here?”

“No,” she said flatly.

Right.

Recognizing the lie for what it was, he drove off toward the winery.

Okay, girl, Livia told herself. Okay. This is not a big deal. There’re only a few miles to go back to the winery and you’ll be safe there. Not that you’re in danger or anything. Physical danger, that was. Just ignore the sexy man because you’re not here in Napa for a hookup or any other kind of romantic adventure. Stare out your window and think about what you need to pack for the shoot in Mexico at the end of the month.

She thought hard, possibly damaging her discombobulated brain in the process.

What did she need? Mexico was hot, right, so she’d need—what?

Oh, wait. Sunscreen. Good! Good start! Great job ignoring the sexy man!

Yes. She could do this. She’d need sunscreen, and she’d also need—

“Are you cold?” he asked, adjusting the vents.

Damn. Was he doing that on purpose 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.

The dog, sensing weakness, cocked his enormous head, regarded her with those melted chocolate eyes and managed to look less goofy and more cute.

“Hello, poochie,” she murmured, scratching his ears again and wishing she knew his name. His tail wagged, thumping the chair hard enough to cause splinters in the wood. “Are you trying to get more banan-aaa? Well, I don’t have any. I don’t have annn-yyy.”

The dog showed every indication of forgiving her. He gave her hand a sweeping lick with a tongue the size of a slab of beef and lurched to his feet, tail swinging and ready to begin a full day of following her around.

Right.

First thing on her agenda: complaining to the owners about J.R.

The main house was a hive of activity with people converging around bicycles lined up on the cobblestone courtyard beyond the huge front porch. This must be the daily tour she’d read about in the brochure; she’d have to sign up for the one tomorrow. Riding down these country roads through the swaying vines and past the river sounded like heaven to her, and the tour ended with a winery tour and tasting. Who could turn that down?

Skirting the friendly crowd, several of whom smiled at her with respectful recognition but showed no signs of wanting an autograph or picture with her, thank goodness, she and her four-legged shadow entered the huge main lobby.

It was incredibly beautiful in that Western opensky kind of way. Huge windows, vaulted ceiling, an enormous stone hearth with a roaring fire to ward off the morning’s chill. Seating areas with leather sofas and chairs invited people to sit, stay awhile and visit and the hearty scent of good brew wafting from the fully stocked coffee bar in the corner invited her to never leave. Ever.

Another cup of coffee was just the thing she needed before—

Wait. Was that the little girl again, over there peering at her from behind the grand piano? It was. Crouched down with only her face visible around the gleaming ebony bench, she was all wide-eyed interest and quivering excitement.

Livia smiled and waved.

The girl giggled, clapped her hand over her mouth and disappeared into the shadows.

Livia laughed. She’d gotten a giggle out of her little stalker this time, so that was progress, right?

Helping herself to a huge powder-blue Chambers Winery mug, she filled it with her morning drink, which was essentially a cup of milk with just enough coffee in it to turn it tan. No nasty skim milk for her today, thanks. On this vacation, she was going to eat and drink to her heart’s content, and that meant—oh, wow, look at the creamy deliciousness!—whole milk.

Taking a sip, she moaned in ecstasy. The dog, who was nothing but a blatant opportunist, whined with hope.

“None for you,” she said sharply.

He whined again, ears drooping.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, glancing at all the blue-shirted employees for the one she wanted. Time to talk to…oh, there she was at the reception counter. She recognized her from her photo on the winery’s Web site. “Excuse me. Are you Mrs. Chambers?”

The older woman, who’d been typing something into the computer, looked up and smiled. “I certainly am. So if you love it here and you’re having the time of your life, you have me to thank. But if you’re having any sort of problem with the food or service or anything, it’s my husband’s fault and I had nothing to do with it. You can blame him.”

Laughing, Livia stuck out her hand. “I’m Livia Blake. I’m great friends with Rachel Wellesley. You’ve got a fantastic place here.”

“Well, any friend of my son Ethan’s fiancée is practically family. It’s so nice to meet you.” Mrs. Chambers was lovely, with salt-and-pepper natural waves and happy eyes that crinkled at the corners. She had a warm, double-handed grip and wide smile that made Livia feel like a long-lost niece or something. “Your pictures don’t do you justice.”

Livia flushed. “Thank you so much.”

“I see you’ve met Willard.”

“Willard.” The dog, hearing his name, perked up and waited at attention. “So that’s his name. Wait—Willard?”

“Don’t blame me,” Mrs. Chambers said. “My granddaughter named him. He’s not bothering you, is he? We’re still trying to civilize him. He’s a stray.”

Willard, the manipulator, chose that exact moment to rub his big fat head against Livia’s leg, leaving a splotch of saliva on her cargo pants. What could she do but give him a nice scratch under his collar?

“Oh, he’s fine,” Livia said. “I’m used to him now.”

“Well, you let me know if he doesn’t behave.”

“Actually, there’s someone else here who isn’t behaving—”

“Oh, no.”

“—J.R.? One of your employees?”

Mrs. Chambers gaped at her. “J.R.?”

Livia hated to sound like a tattletale, but she wasn’t going to pull her punches. “He was very rude to me when I arrived yesterday. I thought you should know.”

“J.R.?”

“Yes, and he said you’d had problems with him before. So, I just—with a bed-and-breakfast this lovely, I thought you probably didn’t want employees giving paying guests a hard time. Maybe you’ll want to speak to him about that.”

A sudden speculative gleam sparked to life in Mrs. Chamber’s eye, almost as though she knew Mr. Arrogant had made Livia’s belly flutter with unmentionable desires. It figured. A man like that—all muscles, dimples, testosterone and bad attitude—was nothing but trouble to any nearby female guests, a fact of which Mrs. Chambers was probably well aware.

Sure enough. “I certainly will talk to J.R. and get to the bottom of this right away,” Mrs. Chambers said. “Don’t you worry.”

“I don’t want to get him fired or anything,” Livia said quickly.

“I understand.” Mrs. Chambers looked utterly sincere but Livia couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a teensy bit of amusement in there somewhere, and she didn’t get it. “You leave him to me.”

“Well.” Livia hesitated. Was there some punch line she was missing here? “Thank you.”

“Have a lovely day, dear. Feel free to explore.”

“I will.” Livia drifted away, with nowhere in particular to go.

O-kaaay.

Now that her complaint was officially lodged, it was time to dooo…

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Yay!

The light and easy feeling of being an eagle, soaring high and free, was so overwhelming she had to sit in one of the cozy chairs before the fire and let it sink in while she sipped her coffee. For once she didn’t have to check her watch every three minutes and then dash off to a flight or a shoot. For once she didn’t need to have the cell phone glued to her ear and take every urgent call that came through from her agent, manager or personal assistant. For once she could sit on her bee-hind and be as lazy as she wanted.

Feeling ridiculous and happy, she grinned down at Willard, who’d collapsed atop her feet for an impromptu rest. Ever watchful, he peered up at her, brows raised, and lounged patiently while she finished her drink. Yawning with a startling display of sharp white teeth, he waited for his marching orders.

“All right, you big oaf. If you’ll get off me, we can get going.”

Apparently the dog spoke a little English. After another jaw-cracking yawn and stretch, he heaved himself upright—what’d this beast weigh, anyway? Oneeighty? Two hundred?—and trotted over to a back door, which seemed as good a place to start as any.

Out they went. It hadn’t warmed up much but the bright sun had burned off the last of the mist and it was already a gorgeous day. She wandered past the open-air restaurant with its green market umbrellas and enormous trellis twined with wisteria vines thicker than her arms and paused on a stone terrace overlooking the rolling hills and the grapes.

Leaning her elbows on the thick stone wall, she breathed in the sweet air, which was so different from the low-hanging and unidentifiable gray cloud that smothered L.A. and the exhaust-filled fumes of New York. It was so clean and pure she was surprised her lungs didn’t seize up in shock.

In the far distance she could see workers walking between the rows, probably assessing the grapes for ripeness. It was, she knew from her pretrip research, almost harvest time. Maybe she could even pick a grape or two before her trip was over.

Pulling out her 35mm camera, which she’d slung over her shoulder earlier, she took a few shots. Maybe she could start a Napa Valley scrapbook. She did love scrapbooking. Willard obligingly posed for a couple of pictures and then they were off again, wandering with nowhere to be.

Wasn’t there a heated pool around here somewhere? And a spa? Wait…yeah. Over there. Inside an enormous wrought-iron fence was one of those deep blue natural pools that looked like a pond carved out of a hill. There was even a stone waterfall, as though they’d stumbled into some sort of hidden jungle oasis. People lounged on towel-covered chairs beneath market umbrellas, chatting happily and sipping wine from oversized glasses.

Livia focused her lens, snapping a few more shots and wishing she could stay here in this laid-back and peaceful environment forever, or at least discover somewhere in L.A. that made her feel this mellow.

“Not swimming?”

So much for relaxation. J.R.’s deep voice way too close to her ear wound her up tight, making her skin tingle and her breath come short. Resolutely determined to ignore him, she kept her elbows on the fence and the camera up to her face, taking pictures of God knew what in her sudden distraction—probably scattered flip-flops, empty orange juice glasses and the corners of peoples’ noses. He didn’t take the hint. Big surprise. Doing the worst possible thing, he rested his elbow on the fence beside hers, igniting her skin with the slight brush of his.

God.

“Hello, J.R.,” she finally said, keeping her voice tart and refusing to look at him. “Stalking me again?”

Too bad the smug amusement in his voice disturbed her as much as his touch and masculinity. “Actually, I’ve been staking out the pool. I don’t want to miss it if you take a dip. Will you be putting on a two-piece anytime soon?”

That did it. Jerking the camera down, she glared at him, meeting that honey gaze and feeling its kick right in her solar plexus. He wore the Chambers Winery colors and a Negro League cap again today, but he was fresh and clean, smelling of soap and masculine deliciousness. The lethal combination of his arrogance, proximity and boyish wickedness—he had dimples! Dimples!—was making her agitated and hot enough to burst out of her sensitized skin, and it really pissed her off.

“I spoke to Mrs. Chambers about you a little while ago. You should probably update your résumé.”

He laughed and that was sexy, too. “Thanks for the warning. So you like being on the other side of the lens, eh?”

“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Are you any good?”

“Naturally,” she said, hoping he didn’t ask to see any of her last few shots. “Don’t you have some work to do in the fields? Mud to wallow in? Something?”

He tsked. “If you’re not nice to me, Livia, I’m not going to give you your present.”

Present? Really? That sounded interesting, but she couldn’t be swayed from her absolute and unadulterated dislike of him. This man disturbed her way too much. “Thanks, but I don’t want anything from you. Except maybe your swift departure.”

“Really?” That amber gaze skimmed over her, silky-smooth and smoldering. “You sure about that?” he wondered softly.

She stared at him, her dry mouth and tight throat rendering her incapable of answering. That was bad enough. Worse was the sudden fullness in her breasts and the subtle but insistent ache between her thighs.

The moment lasted way too long, until she managed to find her voice and create a diversion. “I wouldn’t mind taking your Black Yankees cap.”

His eyes widened with surprise. “You know the Negro Leagues?”

“I…love baseball. I’m reading a Jackie Robinson biography right now.”

“Oh,” he said faintly.

So much for her diversion. This revelation that they had baseball in common seemed only to sharpen his interest; she felt it swirling around her and wrapping her up tight in its cocoon.

He didn’t seem to like it any better than she did and his next words came with great reluctance, as though he was kicking them out of his mouth.

“You’re really something. You know that?”

She couldn’t answer. The air was pregnant with so many things between them that she couldn’t trust her voice.

He blinked and recovered and, unsmiling, presented her with a bowl that he’d hidden behind his back.

Oh, wow. It was filled with the most beautiful dusty purple grapes.

“Oh,” she said helplessly, feeling special and decadent, like a latter-day Cleopatra who’d been gifted with all the treasures this wondrous land had to offer. “Thank you.”

He dimpled again, but the piercing intensity with which he studied her didn’t diminish by so much as a watt. Was this a seduction? Did he know that she would have thrown a diamond bracelet back in his face, but her driving curiosity would never let her reject a bowl of grapes from a vintner?

“You’re welcome. They’re pinot noir. Do you drink pinot?”

“Yes. Are they ripe?”

They had to be; she could smell their fragrance already.

“You tell me.”

He pulled one off the stem for her and her unwilling gaze went to his hands, which were long-fingered and even with short, clean nails. That hand had touched hers yesterday. That hand had made her feel all kinds of unwanted sensations. That hand was trouble.

To her agonized dismay, he wiped and then squeezed the grape in a careful grip between thumb and forefinger, making her wonder how a man this size could be so gentle. The grape burst open into a star pattern with a bead of dark juice that was one of the most sensual things she’d ever seen as it trickled down his brown skin.

Her gaze flickered up to his face. She couldn’t breathe. “It’s ripe.”

“What does it taste like?”

He held it to her lips, utterly still and watchful, as though the earth would stop revolving for him until he saw what she would do. There was only one thing she could do. Opening her mouth, she took the grape, taking care to brush his thumb with her tongue as she did.

His breath hitched. “What does it taste like?”

His skin tasted salty and warm, absolutely delicious. But he was probably asking about the grape, so she pressed it to the roof of her mouth, crushing it and letting the flavors wash over her. “I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do,” he urged.

She thought hard, struggling to put it into words. “Strawberry, maybe…or is it raspberry? With something that’s a little, I don’t know…a little spicy.”

That pleased him. Those eyes of his crinkled at the corners, thrilling her beyond all reason. “I’ll make a world-class viticulturist out of you yet, Livia,” he murmured.

With that, he pressed the bowl into her hands and turned to go, granting her wish to be alone, and she stared after him, wanting him to stay.

Chapter Four

The next day, after a bicycle tour in the morning and an open-air lunch on the terrace, Livia resumed her exploration of the winery grounds. She still hadn’t seen the stone chapel that was around here somewhere—the whole point of her visit was to scope out the chapel and report back to Rachel on its suitability for her wedding—and there was no time like the present to find it.

There’d been no sign of J.R., and she was glad about that.

Really. She was glad.

“Come on, Willard.” Heading to the far end of the terrace, she consulted her map and clicked her fingers at her sidekick, who’d again been outside her door this morning and had waited for her at the bike stand during the tour.

No answer.

“Willard?” She raised her head and looked around.

Nothing.

Had that silly dog finally abandoned her? Feeling unaccountably disgruntled, she put her hands on her hips and scanned in all directions for her unfaithful companion, but there was no sign of him.

Well, fine, Willard. Fine. She could explore by her damn self.

At the edge of the terrace, though, she discovered a surprise. A pretty little rock waterfall had been carved into the hill like stair steps and the water flowed into a small pond with the kind of relaxing trickle that people back in L.A. acquired through the use of programmable sleep machines available in high-end gadget stores. Potted plants, flowers and lush grass surrounded the whole area, and there, at the end of several enormous stepping stones, sat the biggest doghouse Livia had ever seen. At least she thought it was a doghouse.

Wait—was it a doghouse?

Fire-engine red with a black roof and honest-to-God wraparound porch with white rails, it had a white boneshaped cutout over the arched doorway, so…yeah, it was definitely a doghouse. Oh, and there behind it were King Kong–sized stainless steel food and water bowls, so—

“Are you a princess?”

Whoa. Unidentified small person voice. Was this the girl that’d been following her? Livia glanced all around but there was no one in sight. “Uh,” she said, still searching and beginning to feel dumb, “are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

That time she got a bead on the voice. It came from the general direction of the doghouse…There it was! A flash of movement inside the house and the unmistakable glint of a pair of large eyes that did not belong to Willard.

Creeping closer, Livia squatted and squinted into the dark depths of the house. At the same time, a flashlight clicked on, settled under a small chin and illuminated a girl’s face—it was her shy little friend—with the eerie up-lighting usually seen only in horror movies and at sleepovers.

Deeper into the doghouse—geez, how much square footage did this thing have?—lounged Willard, chomping on a chew toy of some kind. In front of the girl was a collection of lunging and snarling plastic dinosaurs and dragons that overflowed from their plastic bin.

“Hi,” Livia said.

The girl regarded her solemnly, the effect intensified by the flashlight’s glow, and spoke in a Vincent Price–like, creepy voice. “You may enter the dragon’s den if you utter the secret password.”

“Ah,” Livia said, not at all certain she wanted to fold her body up in there with that dog, no matter how much space there was. “I don’t think I know the secret pass—”

“Guess.”

“Ah. Okay. Hmm. Is it please? No, that’d be dumb. Princess? Pterodactyl?”

“It’s pteranodon.”

“Sorry. I knew that. Pteranodon?”

“No.”

“Umm…Belle? Aurora? Snow White? Mulan? Pocahontas?”

The girl took mercy on Livia and apparently decided she’d made enough of an effort, which was good because Livia’s knees were beginning to creak.

“The password is Tiana. You may enter.”

Livia was afraid of that. “Tell you what. Why don’t I just sit right here and—”

“Enter,” the girl commanded in that ghostly voice.

“Enter. Right.”

What else could she do but drop to all fours and crawl into the doghouse? She sincerely hoped that there were no paparazzi loitering nearby in the bushes. The cover shot on the week’s tabloids would include a close-up picture of her butt, which would look like a double-wide trailer, and the headline would read something along the lines of “Guess Which Supermodel is Losing the Battle with Cellulite?”

Nice.

To her immense surprise and relief, though, once she got through the cramped opening the house was quite spacious. More like a dog mansion. Willard seemed happy to be reunited with her and, when she sat crosslegged, put his head in her lap.

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